


No Church in the Wild

by LaMaldita



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crime Drama, M/M, Mafia AU, Russian Mafia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-13
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-10-31 06:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10894131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaMaldita/pseuds/LaMaldita
Summary: Being the personal bodyguard of a Russian mafia heir comes with its challenges, and when that heir is renowned hellraiser Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek's job can be a migraine waiting to happen. But when his charge starts crossing a line, all trouble and sultry eyes, can Otabek bring himself to stop him?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [8 Days a Week](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9108151) by [dizzyt](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dizzyt/pseuds/dizzyt). 



> This is inspired by kawaiilo-ren and kepitto's incredible [Russian mafia AU](https://goo.gl/gKuruO) which I cannot stop thinking about so big shoutout to them! 
> 
> Also feedback keeps me writing so please send me a comment if you liked this or could see room for improvement!

Two years. For two years he has hovered at Yuri’s side as the boy burned like a roman candle all over St. Petersburg, apparently trying his best to either self-destruct or ruin the Plisetsky name. For two years he has dragged him out of fights, driven him from party to party and fought to stay standing while Yuri danced past the 4 a.m. mark without even a hint of shadow beneath his green eyes. He has protected him, scolded him, watched him; always from an arm’s length,  and it all makes Otabek feel much older than his 21 years.

Otabek tugs his scarf up over his mouth, squinting his eyes against the wind. There is a bright edge to it, a sign of the coming winter. Yuri is taking forever in the cafe, his blonde hair a beacon through the fogged windows.

At times Otabek envies him. He has the liberty to take forever, flirting with the baristas and wisping about like a spoiled rich kid. He lost the only responsibility shackling him when he finished high school and he can afford to live like the world revolves around him because in this city, in this family, it does. For Otabek, duty is as much a part of him as the ink on his skin, and he wears it like a shield. If he is given a task he completes it, no questions asked.

When Yuri finally boots the door open, Otabek is surprised to see two cups in his hands.

“Here.”

It’s not as if Yuri hasn’t bought him things before. It just mostly came in the form of shots at the club because _I’m not fucking drinking by myself, Beka_. Otabek sips carefully so as not to burn his tongue. Black, with a little sugar. He’s not sure when Yuri picked up on how he takes his coffee and to be honest he hadn’t taken the younger man for the observant type, but then again when did Yuri ever follow people’s expectations. He doesn’t mention it, nodding his head in thanks before opening the beamer’s passenger door.

Yuri folds himself into the car, cradling his latte against his chest for warmth. Since hitting puberty he had become about seventy percent leg and his heeled boots only accentuate that fact--as well as making entry and exit from the low, sporty cars his grandfather favours a delicate operation.

He shoots Otabek a smirk as he buckles in. “Quieter than usual today, Altin. Aren’t you gonna give me shit for missing dedushka’s curfew?”

“Like I could ever make you obey curfew. Besides, it’s only ten past.”

Nikolai had set the 8pm curfew after Yuri had gotten into yet another scrap outside yet another trendy club on the strip. It had been four against two and Otabek had suffered a dislocated shoulder for his trouble, despite managing to drive them back and get Yuri out of there.

Yuri sticks his lip out, but is clearly pleased. “I’m not _that_ bad, am I, Beka?”

“You are.”

And that’s another thing. The nickname, the lingering touches, the way he would deposit himself into Otabek’s lap just to get a reaction.

For the first few months following his assignment, Yuri had treated Otabek like the world’s greatest annoyance, sulking constantly and trying to give him the slip at every turn. Otabek tried to be as low-impact as possible while still doing his job--because he knew from watching the others that the harder he was on Yuri, the more he would attempt escape and generally cause havoc. Because of that, Yuri seemed to trust him. And more recently that trust had taken a weird turn.

Otabek is a professional but he is also a human being, and a young male one at that. It is far easier to stay composed in the face of Yuri’s outbursts and backtalk than it is ignoring conspiratorial whispers into his ear and a long, tight body pressed against his side.

Otabek could remember the day and probably the time it started. Yuri was 17 and had disappeared with an extremely expensive bottle of scotch. Nikolai hadn’t even had the energy to get angry, just sighed and sent Otabek and Georgi out to look for him. After all, pulling vanishing acts was Yuri’s speciality. They hadn’t even been that worried until they realized one of the cars was missing.

Thank god they had found him before the cops--or worse--did, double parked in an alley and blasting The Weeknd with all the windows down in fucking November. The heavy smell of Macallan 55 Year had clung to him like resin as Otabek yanked him to his feet and briefly marveled at how his hand could encircle Yuri’s entire upper arm. Even drunkenly thrashing about, he felt as fragile as a gull.

He had only busted a headlight but Otabek knew it was going to take hours for the tight, sick feeling in his stomach to dissipate. _It could have been so much worse._ He realized it was the first time he had felt truly angry at Yuri; furious for so carelessly putting his life in jeopardy, for making his him worry like this. He had wanted to shake him, to yell, but had just hauled him around to the passenger seat and waited until Yuri had stopped spitting curses and slouched into silence.

“Do you know,” he began tersely, fighting down the anger sitting like gravel in his throat, “How fucking irresponsible that was?”

“It’s not like anything happened.”

“That’s not the point, Yuri. What if you had been pulled over?”

“Then dedushka would have bailed me out,” Yuri said, interrupting him.

Otabek took a breath, watching the cars streak by in smears of light at the mouth of the alleyway. “You could have killed yourself.”

Yuri had snorted at that, and Otabek had to fight down the urge to slap him. Either the kid fancied himself invincible or he didn’t care who he would hurt if something happened to him.

“ _What_ ,” he had challenged, to which Otabek said nothing, just letting his silence speak for him. The blonde huffed and tipped his head back in exasperation. “God, will you calm down if I just suck your dick?”

Otabek remembers having to consciously close his mouth and glaring ahead through the windshield as he jammed the key into the ignition; anger and arousal coiling serpentine in his core. He had driven them home in silence, dragged Yuri to his room and sat outside the door for the remainder of the night, smoking and trying not to allow the image of Yuri on his knees to form in his mind. 

“Ground control to Altin.” Yuri is watching him, licking foam off the inside of the takeout lid, feet propped up on the dashboard.

“Put those on the floor,” says Otabek, adjusting the rearview mirror so he doesn’t have to look at that pink tongue and wet, lovely mouth.

Yuri’s eyes stay on him, sharp and questioning, but he keeps his own on the road ahead and the streetlamps that ping to life in the gathering dusk.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick TW: there is mention of non-con in this chapter. Nothing graphic but heads up anyway.

Two years since Yuri had been dragged into his grandfather’s office just shy of kicking and screaming, to meet his new bodyguard. _You mean babysitter,_ he had snapped, flicking his hair out of his face.

Otabek had been so quiet while dedushka and Yakov talked that Yuri hadn’t even noticed him standing there all black hair black suit black eyes until dedushka growled at him to remember his goddamn manners. He had had offered his hand, to which Yuri’s response was crossing his arms and glowering until Otabek slid his hand back into his pocket.

At least he could read social cues, unlike Georgi, who routinely unloaded his garbage truck of emotional baggage on anyone in a ten foot radius, no matter what was going on. And he was younger than Yuri had expected--like a good twenty years younger.

Yuri had barely listened to Yakov as he went on about _not giving Otabek any trouble and no more goddamn parties on school nights_ , side-eyeing his new bodyguard. It was still going to be lame as shit having a minder follow him around but maybe with this guy it would be marginally less lame than if he had been like, forty with a dad bod.

A rap of Yakov’s thick knuckles on the table startled him. “Yuri! Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, god, I get it,” he ground out, then jerked his chin at Otabek. “Let’s go, I guess.”

He strode out of the room before Yakov could get in another word and didn’t stop until he reached his bedroom. The south-facing window had turned it into a sauna, as usual, and Yuri felt sweat begin to seep at his temples as he turned on his heel and plopped himself down on his desk chair, crossing his arms.

“All right. Let's see your tattoos.”  

Otabek said nothing, simply raising his eyebrows in a clear gesture of _excuse me?_

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got, don’t just stand there like an idiot!”

Otabek paused for a moment before shrugging off his jacket and draping it over a nearby chair. His eyes never left Yuri’s as he loosened his tie and unbuttoned his white shirt, tossing both aside without ceremony. Yuri swivelled his chair this way and that, suddenly feeling prickly-hot all over. No sound but a few sparrows outside and their breath, filling the room.

Otabek reached behind his head to pull off his undershirt and Yuri had to stifle a noise of shock. Otabek’s body was...fuck, it was gorgeous. All powerful muscle and copper skin, with arms to die for and a shoulder-to-waist ratio that was just _unfair._ He held himself like a soldier, hands clasped behind his back, feet apart, chin up. Stern and patient. There was something fleeting in Yuri that wanted to break him of that, but it was a part of himself that he still could not name.  

Yuri managed to stand, somehow, and walked smoothly around the other man in a circle. Any criminal worth his salt had his life story tattooed on his body, but Yuri was finding it difficult to focus on the tattoos and not the canvas. He catalogued the ink in his mind, trying not to let the fact that Otabek’s dark eyes tracked his every movement shake his concentration.

_Two terms in prison, turned 18 during one of them, served his sentence in full. God, those abs--fuck, focus. He’s hostile to cops. He got into the business young and climbed fast, earning stars on his shoulders._

“Did you want to look at my teeth, too?”

And those were the first words Otabek ever said to him. Yuri wasn’t sure if it was the comment or the fact that he actually talked that startled the bark of laughter out of him, and when Otabek cracked a tiny smile, he felt for just a second like things might be OK.

But the ink was just a resume; point form. He felt he still knew so little about Otabek. The few times he could get him talking, like really talking, if things got too personal the shutters came down and Otabek would answer his question with a shrug.

“Hey Yuri.”

He blinks, and his own face comes into focus. Otabek has looked up from his phone and meets his gaze in the mirror, eyes sharp as obsidian even from across the room.

“Huh?” _Very eloquent, Plisetsky. Fuck._  

“What are you doing?”

That tone says he knows exactly what Yuri is doing, which is, at the moment, winding small braids into his hair in preparation for a night out. He sets down the elastic and huffs.

“What, am I not allowed to do my hair now?” It’s a lame deflection, but what’s the harm in trying.

Otabek scrolls disinterestedly through his phone. “Nikolai said no going out. Not until things have calmed down.”

 _Goddamnit._ “Beka, come on. It’s Friday night. What the fuck else am I supposed to do?”

The older man shrugs. “Read a book, maybe?”

“ _Read a book, maybe,_ ” Yuri parrots his words in a low mumble, “God, how many grandkids do you have?”  

Otabek gives a sharp exhale through his nose which Yuri now knows means he is amused. It had taken Yuri months to learn to read him; the man was even private with his expressions. Everything he was feeling lay in a split-second quirk of his mouth, the set of his shoulders, a movement of his nose that could be mistaken by anyone else for an itch.

“I’ve got cards,” he suggests.

Here is what Yuri knows: Otabek is Kazakh, from Almaty. He grew up poor and got out of dodge at fifteen. Yakov found him in the bareknuckle boxing circuit--which is where he got the scar in his eyebrow--and recruited him. He is a smoker, as much as he tries to keep that fact secret. He drives a motorcycle, but is forbidden to take Yuri out on it. He can fix cars, do mental math very fast, and throw the meanest left hook Yuri has ever seen.

Christ, the day he had found out about the motorcycle had nearly been the death of him. He had been up early for once and heard the juddering of a motor around the side of the house. There was Otabek, in his work slacks and a tight white t-shirt and a goddamn _leather jacket_ , trying to fix his helmet hair. And when he leaned against the bike to light a smoke Yuri felt like someone had kicked out his knees. He thought about it for days--wrapping his arms around Otabek’s middle and ripping through the city so fast that tears came to his eyes, heart pounding against that strong back.

They play Durak on Yuri’s bed. It is one of the few ways to make a night in tolerable, mostly because he always kicks everyone’s ass at it. He throws down a trump six, beating Otabek’s eight, and cackles victoriously.

“Idiot with epaulette! Put ‘em up, Altin.”  

Otabek groans and balances the card on one shoulder. “Yura, you’re killing me.”

“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” says Yuri, giving his biggest Cheshire grin before snapping his gum and throwing down another card.  

He proceeds to thrash Otabek once again before the older man flicks his cards at him and calls a smoke break. Yuri pads after him, enjoying the way his ass looks in his new black slacks. He doesn’t care if Otabek sees--it’s not like he hides his appreciation. Fuck, if anything he has spent the last two years throwing himself at the guy, and up until several months ago had begun to think Otabek just might not swing that way.

Everything had shifted the past summer. It was some skinhead idiot in whatever one-word-name club, one of Yuri’s favourite haunts (or used to be). Beka had been sent to get drinks, and this creep had full-on grabbed Yuri’s ass, earning himself a shove and a _fuck off!_ The skinhead had refused to back down, hissing insults until a tattooed hand clamped onto his wrist and he found himself looking down the barrel of Beka’s death stare. That had sent him packing.

Everything had been fine until he had gone to take a leak. Yuri stumbled into the bathroom on drunken baby deer legs, squinting at the weird pink lightbulbs. His head spun pleasantly as he bent to splash a little water into his mouth. Then his arms were wrenched behind his back and pinned, a thick miasma of cigarette breath and vodka exhaled against his ear.

_Teach you to fuck with me, you little tease._

Any words turned to sap in his throat, too sticky to force out. He saw himself briefly in the mirror, contorted, eyes wide and rolling like a spooked horse. The skinhead shadowy behind him. 

_Be a good girl, now._

Yuri threw his head back, catching him in the nose and managing to free his hands. He made it two steps towards the door before the skinhead had him by his choker and hauled him back, shoving his face into the grimy wall.

He remembers his head swimming. Pink light. His leggings yanked down. His own heart, louder than the dulled trap beats playing outside. Hair pasted to his face. Plastic palm tree in the corner. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch me. The sound of the door.

Otabek had immediately grabbed the skinhead by the face, slamming the back of his head against the stall. Yuri slid down the wall, eyes hazy, watched Otabek deck the guy until blood poured from his mouth, knock him out with a knee to the gut and an elbow to the top of the head. Everything was so pink, so red. He closed his eyes against it, breath coming out stuttery and wet as he shivered against the tile at his back. He was vaguely aware of Otabek coming to kneel in front of him, saying his name.

Otabek had pressed his cool forehead to Yuri’s and whispered until he calmed down. He was so close that Yuri could feel his breath against his lips, swore he could even feel his eyelashes as he blinked. Maybe he’d been concussed. Somehow he found the strength to open his eyes and found Otabek’s deep brown ones staring back at him, looking--for the first time--terrified.

Yuri hadn’t even noticed his own hands moving until they were on Otabek’s face, trembling like dry leaves, his thumbs brushing over the other man’s cheekbones. He traced one side of his sharp jaw and ran his fingers into the velvet buzz of his undercut, transfixed and yet incredibly aware of Otabek’s parted mouth, the gaze that followed his tongue as he licked his own parched lips, the hand tensing minutely on his shoulder.

It had been Yuri’s phone buzzing against his hip that had startled them out of it; Otabek bolting to his feet and half-carrying Yuri out of the club. The rest of the night was harder to remember, but in retrospect he should have thrown that fucking phone out the window.

Since then it had been this infuriating push and pull, like arm wrestling, like trying to kill each other. Yuri is cautious on the attack, and Otabek never lets his guard down, because they both know what will happen when one--or both--finally relents. 

They slip out the french doors and onto the patio, cool against Yuri’s bare feet. The late autumn sun washes the buildings caramel, the canal below them is shadowed navy blue. Dark and light. Sun and moon. Otabek and Yuri. God, when did he become such a fucking sap.

He watches Otabek roll a cigarette, the dark skin of his hands luminous in the warm light. He lets the older man take a few long drags before reaching for it. Otabek leans away and Yuri scrambles for it until he flicks it into the canal. This is the game they play, always variations on this.

He sighs. “Now you’ve made me waste a cigarette.” 

“So roll another one.” 

“No.”

God, that was the most infuriating of Otabek’s quirks. He doesn’t give an explanation, just drops a single syllable like a brick and then clams up like _this discussion is over._ Yuri rolls his eyes.

“Jesus, don’t be such a square. You know I’ve smoked before.”

“Doesn’t mean you should now. Shouldn’t get into the habit so young.”

“Oh, says the guy who’s like what, three years older? How old were you when you started smoking, gramps?”

“Too young,” he pauses, looking out over the glassy river. “I did a lot of things too young.”

Yuri is afraid to breathe, to break this tenuous thing that hovers between them in the soft purpling of evening. He says nothing, hoping it’s the right choice. Otabek pulls another rolling paper out of his pocket.

“My mother tried to contact me yesterday.”

So few words carry so much. Hypotheses flicker like scenes from a TV drama through Yuri’s mind; teenaged Otabek arguing with his parents in a tiny yellow kitchen. Sneaking onto a train in the middle of the night with nothing but a backpack. Fighting with his mom on the phone when he calls her from somewhere near the border. She is crying, pulling at her necklace. Otabek yesterday picking up a call from an unknown number. She sounds older. He says something that sounds like sorry, and presses _end_.

“How long has it been?” Yuri’s tone is alien in its softness.

“A while. Years.”

Yuri also knows this: Otabek misses his family. That he worries about his mother. That he has a sister, that she’s younger and they don’t look like siblings. That he hasn’t spoken to her since he left.

He’s never been good at comforting people or knowing what to say. If anything, he usually makes things worse. So he stays quiet, because it seems like the right thing to do, and when Otabek lights the cigarette, Yuri doesn’t reach for it. He trusts the other man with his life, and he wants desperately to be trusted in the same way.

Otabek stares at him for a moment, waiting for trouble. The air between them is thick with a swarm of unsaid words. Yuri leans against the railing and tips his head back, hair dangling into space, staring up at a night sky gone beige with light pollution.

He starts a bit when two long fingers come into his field of vision, cigarette pinched between them, hovering just before his mouth. His eyes flick over to find Otabek not looking at him but into the canal below, one elbow on the railing like none of this is a big fucking deal. Yuri is tempted to bite his hand just to teach him a lesson, but instead leans forward and takes the offered smoke, lips brushing warm, rough fingers. All he wants is to feel those callouses catch on his skin, to take that thick thumb into his mouth. He shivers, taking a drag to steady himself. Otabek is the one who is going through family shit right now and yet Yuri is left feeling exposed; it pisses him off.

“Cold as shit out here,” he says, wincing inwardly as his voice snaps the silence like a tendon. “I’m going in.”  

He doesn’t wait for Otabek to follow. He knows he will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has not been beta read, so suggestions and critique are very much welcome. Your reviews pretty much keep me motivated to keep writing this! Also: what is your favourite line or description so far?


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